The Other Side of Fleet Street
by Snuffy Livingston
Summary: Mr. Berkley opened up a bookshop across the street and made the horrible mistake of falling in love. SLASH, Sweeney/OMC


**The Other Side of Fleet Street**

Snuffy Livingston

He set up shop on a Thursday. A few movers were carrying in pieces of furniture, squeezing them at odd angles through the door of the building across Fleet Street. Mr. Todd hadn't even noticed until Mrs. Lovett drew his attention to it that morning over breakfast.

"New fellow across the street," she said as she slid a plate of crumpets onto the table. "Did you see him?"

"No. What new fellow?"

"Have a look for yourself."

Mr. Todd turned around and looked through the grimy window. In the thin crowd of early morning, it was easy to miss, but he could see a figure standing atop a ladder, hammering a new sign over the door.

"A bookshop?" asked Mr. Todd.

"Yeah. Haven't gotten a good look inside just yet," Mrs. Lovett said. "But he's a handsome devil, the bloke who runs it."

Mr. Todd watched as he climbed back down the ladder and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his white poet's shirt. He looked up at the sign, smiling through his sweat, clearly admiring his handiwork. Even through the window, Mr. Todd could see his strikingly white-blond hair, pulled in a taut ponytail at the back of his neck.

"Curious," he said, turning back to his crumpets. They dropped the subject.

-----

He came to visit the following Saturday. Mr. Todd was disposing of the body of an elderly lawyer when Mrs. Lovett came up to tell him.

"We've got a visitor," she said, poking her head in the door.

"Show him up," replied Mr. Todd.

"No, not _that_ sort of visitor," she corrected. "Remember that gentleman who moved in across the street? He came over to say hello."

"Has he?"

"He has. You should come down, Mr. T; it's the neighbourly thing to do."

Though he wasn't much fond of the idea of being neighbourly, he wasn't about to go against Mrs. Lovett's wishes, so he followed her down the steps and into the meat shop, which was just as quiet as it usually was in the early afternoon.

The blond man he'd seen two days ago was sitting at one of the tables, sipping patiently at a small glass of gin. When they entered, he looked up and smiled. Now that he was closer, Mr. Todd could make out the details of his face; plump lips, a pointed chin, and green eyes framed by thick lashes. He was, as Mrs. Lovett had described, a "handsome devil".

"You must be Mr. Sweeney Todd," he said, rising from his seat and offering a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Vincent Berkley."

"Pleasure," Mr. Todd said, shaking his hand.

"Mrs. Lovett has spoken volumes about you," said Mr. Berkley, pushing his hands into his pockets again. "She tells me that you're the best barber in London."

"Lovely as she is, Mrs. Lovett has a tendency to exaggerate," explained Mr. Todd.

"Now, don't you be modest, Mr. T," said Mrs. Lovett, swatting his forearm lightly, "you are one of the best, if not _the_ best barber in all of London and you know it. Fastest with a razor this side of the Atlantic, you know."

Mr. Berkley smiled. "Lucky for me, then, whenever I should need a shave."

-----

Mr. Berkley's Book Shoppe opened on a Wednesday, and attracted a great deal of attention. Everyone who was anyone came to visit.

When the shop finally closed, and once the last few patrons had left Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Shop, they headed across the abandoned street and inside. Mr. Todd had only gone along to indulge his landlady, but was not, he supposed, _wholly_ disappointed.

"Sorry, we're closed-- oh!"

He'd been sweeping the floor at the back of the shop. Bookcases ran along each wall, floor to ceiling, stuffed with books of every shape and size. Books on the shelves, books on the counters, books in piles on tables and stacks on the floor -- Mr. Todd had never seen so many books in one place before, especially in a shop so small and narrow.

"Mrs. Lovett, Mr. Todd -- I didn't see you enter," said Mr. Berkley as he set the broom down against the side of a shelf. "Come in, come in. Make yourself at home."

"You're too kind, Mr. Berkley," Mrs. Lovett said. "My, look at all these books!"

"Yes, it's a hobby that gained a life of its own, I'm afraid," he laughed. "I've wanted to open a bookshop for years now. It's such a thrill to finally do so."

"You seemed to have had a productive grand opening," Mr. Todd said as he pulled a book at random off the shelf and idly flipped through the pages. "Congratulations."

Mr. Berkley turned to Mr. Todd. He looked at his hands, at the book therein, then up at his face, where Mr. Todd met his eyes. Then Mr. Berkley smiled.

"Thank you," he said. "Are you a fan of literature, Mr. Todd?"

"I dabble. _Used_ to dabble," Mr. Todd corrected himself as he scanned one of the pages, closed the book, and set it back on the shelf, "but that was a long time ago."

"With a bookshop right across the way, you might be able to get back into it," Mrs. Lovett told him. "Wouldn't that be lovely?"

"Lovely," Mr. Todd agreed, "yes."

"Well, let's strike a deal, then," proposed Mr. Berkley, folding his arms neatly over his chest.

"A deal?" repeated Mr. Todd.

"Yes. You can borrow whatever books you like for as long as you like -- you and Mrs. Lovett both, of course -- for a free shave every week or so."

Mr. Todd looked silently to Mrs. Lovett, and Mrs. Lovett looked back.

"Sounds fair to me," Mr. Todd said finally. "You have yourself a deal, Mr. Berkley."

-----

Mr. Berkley came in for his first shave on a Monday. Mr. Todd decided against killing him, because the books he borrowed were really quite spectacular. He'd forgotten how much he liked to read.

"Hello, Mr. Todd," he said mere moments after a local poet had met his most untimely fate. "How are you liking _Beowulf_?"

Mr. Todd didn't miss a beat. He pulled on his overcoat to mask the long splatter of blood running up his sleeve and replied, "Quite fascinating. I thank you for recommending it."

When he turned away from the mirror, he saw Mr. Berkley standing by the door, his long hair down and falling down to his shoulder-blades. He was smiling not with his mouth but with his eyes as he crossed the dusty room towards the chair, hands clasped behind his back.

"I'm glad," said Mr. Berkley.

"Have a seat," replied Mr. Todd.

Mr. Berkley obliged, sitting down lightly in the timeworn chair, across from the mirror. Mr. Todd moved behind him, pulling both hands through the long, blond hair, as if recalling a fond memory. It was as soft as it was yellow.

"Your hair is beautiful," Mr. Todd whispered. "So long, and so blond."

"My mother thought the same thing, God rest her soul," said Mr. Berkley distractedly as Mr. Todd wove his fingers in the tresses. "I never cut it, not once."

The hand in his hair drew out and slowly traced across the sharp curve of his jaw. In the mirror, Mr. Todd could see his guest's eyes flutter slightly, his neck arch ever so gently into the touch, like a tentative animal starved for affection.

"I'm loathe to harm it with either cream or blade," Mr. Todd told him. "Let me tie it back."

He used a ribbon to keep it back as he slowly lathered shaving cream across his cheeks, jaw and neck. Mr. Todd flipped the razor open in his palm, positioned it, then slowly pulled it upwards towards his chin.

Mr. Todd had never thought that such a simple act could be so erotic. He'd done it a thousand times before, certainly, but never quite like this. The blade was silent against his neck, leaving clean trails of milky skin in its wake. He tilted back Mr. Berkley's chin, leaning down to get a better angle as he shaved his cheek. Mr. Berkley opened his eyes and looked up at him just as Mr. Todd shaved off the last strip of white cream.

"The best barber in London," Mr. Berkley rasped as their eyes met. They were mere inches away, so close that Mr. Todd could feel his breath on his mouth.

Mr. Todd said nothing. The kiss said it all.

-----

They first shared bed on a Monday.

Mr. Todd had never enjoyed the company of a man in such a way. Perhaps what incited it was, as he suspected, the long and yellow hair. Certainly, as he was over him, between his creamy, sweat-slicked thighs, his face buried in the golden locks fanning over the pillow, all he could hear, all he could think about, all he could see, the only thing in his mind...

Lucy, Lucy, _Lucy, oh, God, Lucy..._

If he concentrated, he could block out the subtle differences. He could ignore the flat and firm chest, recalling instead the subtle softness and curve of her breasts. He could overlook the faint scent of cigarettes and lavender tea in favour of Lucy's gentle odour of chamomile.

He had trouble blocking out his voice, however.

Lucy was so thoroughly a soprano. Mr. Berkley was a tenor. As such, his breathy moans were too deep, too different. Mr. Todd elected to cover his mouth with one hand and use the other to spread one thigh wider as he continued pushing into him desperately.

Mr. Berkley groaned and panted against his palm, throwing his head to one side and raising his hips up against Mr. Todd's. He felt so very full, nearly to the point of splitting in two, but always on the verge and never over the edge. Mr. Berkley, had he not been in the throes of passion, would have found it jarring that he had never felt so complete before the moment he and Mr. Todd had shared bed.

After he collapsed on top of Mr. Berkley, sweaty and spent, Mr. Todd caught his breath and rested his forehead on the one beneath him. Outside the window, London was quiet and black, locked safely out of reach and out of mind. Mr. Todd rolled off him, pulling a tangle of dirty sheets with him.

"That was incredible," Mr. Berkley panted, pushing his tangled hair out of his face.

Mr. Todd made a noise of agreement, eyes closing in exhaustion.

He could have said more, Mr. Berkley supposed. He could have told him good night, sweet dreams, or would you like me to make breakfast in the morning? But as he watched his bed-mate nod off, he smiled and decided that it could wait.

-----

When Mr. Berkley discovered that he was falling madly in love, it was a Sunday.

It was also the day he watched him murder a local lawyer, step on a pedal at the base of the chair, and send him shooting down a shaft through the floor.

To call the situation a conflict of interest would be an understatement. He had assured himself earlier that day that Mr. Todd was everything he could want in a friend, a lover and a soulmate. He was calm, intelligent -- _frighteningly_ intelligent at times -- and carried a certain Gothic charm about him.

And now here he was, watching through the window on the door as he sliced the throat of an innocent man. Surprisingly, the first though in his mind was, _Could I possibly love a murderer?_

He ran back down the steps and to his bookshop, slamming the door behind him. All the patrons he'd seen go in and never come out -- how could he have failed to notice this before? The pieces of the puzzle fell into their places, leaving a grim picture, clear and sharp as broken glass. He was a murderer -- his victims uncountable. It left him with enough questions to fill the Sistine Chapel, and so few answers.

Hours later, well after nightfall, Mr. Berkley came to the terrible conclusion:

Even if he wanted to, he could never stop loving him.

-----

Come Wednesday, Mr. Berkley heard a name in passing.

They were in bed. Mr. Todd was behind him, pressing him against the headboard, pushing into him slowly and rhythmically. His hands were clenched around the metal, sweat beading on his brow as the pace gradually increased.

"Oh, God-- Sweeney--"

"Lucy..."

_Lucy?_

-----

Lucy, as he discovered on a Saturday, was his wife.

Mrs. Lovett had given no other information, just that she was his wife, she had died, and she had yellow hair. It left Mr. Berkley with a hollow feeling in his chest.

"So... so he..."

Mrs. Lovett watched him carefully through black eyes.

"H-he doesn't-- it isn't _me_," Mr. Berkley stammered.

"It's true, then," Mrs. Lovett said, slipping into the seat across from him. "You and he."

He buried his face in both hands.

"He doesn't love me. He _can't_ love me. Can he?"

For a very, very long moment, Mrs. Lovett said nothing. Then:

"No, dear," she replied. "Love isn't something Mr. T does very well."

A single sob broke its way out of his throat. His hands began to shake, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep himself from crying.

"My advice?" continued Mrs. Lovett. "Try to forget you love him, because trust me, you'll never have those feelings returned."

Mr. Berkley knew, however, that he couldn't forget.

------

Mr. Todd found Mr. Berkley dead on a Friday morning. Suicide, he thought, with a slashed throat and a bloody knife on the floor, beneath his dangling hand. He was sitting in his office chair, dried tears on his face and dried blood on his clothes. The note on his desk told him everything he needed to know.

_I did it because I love you. I did it because you cannot return it. I did it because I am weak, lacking the mental strength to live a life without your reciprocated affection. My only regret is that I could not be another Lucy to you, my dearest Mr. Todd._

He set the note back down slowly and looked to his body.

He wept because he'd never wanted another Lucy, because his Vincent had been enough.


End file.
